


The Successful Wooing of Chane Laforet

by splashfree



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Actual Nonsense, Background Nice Holystone/Jacuzzi Splot, F/M, First Dates, Incompetant Assassins, Miniature Ponies, Rembrandt - Freeform, Vincent Van Gogh - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:22:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/splashfree/pseuds/splashfree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m in love with you, Chane Laforet,” he says. “And at the end of the day, that’s all there is to it.” </p><p>Claire and Chane go on a date. Wackiness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Successful Wooing of Chane Laforet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Icie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icie/gifts).



> I'm...so sorry.

Glass sprays out from the projection room, showering the empty middle seats like a freak hailstorm in late June. The patrons shriek as the two historic painters – Rembrandt and Van Gogh – soar in an impossible arc, film fluttering behind them like failing wings. They collapse into rows J and K, grunts of pain muffled in their sacks of spoils. But they’re on their feet again faster than two drunks heading for church communion.

“Everybody stay calm!” Rembrandt commands, standing on the backs of two chairs and addressing the room at large. “This picture palace is under our control!”

“We have the control!” Van Gogh affirms, brandishing her paintbrush like a sword.

“And with control comes power!” Rembrandt says, hoisting his easel like a shield. “With power comes art!”

“And art is the answer to poverty!”

“That’s right!” Rembrandt says, cheered by his comrade’s support. “And we’re all about eliminating poverty, aren’t we my dear?”

“We sure are!”

“So!” Rembrandt puffs his chest. “Anybody who tries to stop us will be mercilessly defamed!” says Rembrandt.

“Without mercy!” affirms Van Gogh.

“And anybody who tries to follow us will be…laughed at!”

“Ridiculed!”

“And anybody who—” But what anybody might be doing next is left uncertain as a police siren cuts through the lecture, striking the two painters like a gust of post-modernism.

“Yikes!” Van Gogh gasps.

“Time to go!” Rembrandt yelps.

And they do, trundling out the emergency exit with rolls upon rolls of film clattering in their bags, not quite loud enough to drown out the redhead in the back: “Hey! Haven’t I seen you two somewhere before?”

For that comment, he’d get questioned by the police, for all the good it would do them. The redhead is a loquacious (if incoherent) speaker, and the poor officer in question would struggle to make sense of his accounts of the Streaking Incident of John’s Soda Shop and the Carousel Catastrophe in Central Park.

 

 

“Do we know the names of these shadowy individuals?”

Rachel shakes her head wearily, trying to distract herself from her exhaustion by checking the bandage wrapped around her elbow. A dull red bloom has spread through the white gauze like a bad rumor, but the pain isn’t horrible. This latest injury did more damage to her pride than her funny bone, but that’s a separate story.

Well. Almost.

“No sir,” she replies vocally, remembering almost too late that the President can’t see her from behind his mountain of information. “But I have good reason to believe that they were also behind the attack at the park.”

“This attack,” the President says evenly, “you’re referring to the incident that Nicholas has seen fit to call the ‘Carousel Catastrophe?’”

“I’d…hardly call it a catastrophe, sir,” says Rachel, picking at her bandage. “The victim was barely injured.”

“A miracle, if I’m to believe Nicholas’ article.” There’s a pause and Rachel can’t tell if it’s in severity or jest. “Am I correct in understanding that a child was nearly trampled to death by a horse?”

“A miniature pony, sir.” Rachel shoots a glare to Nicholas who’s standing by the door, mouth screwed down like a corkscrew. He shakes the grimace off with a light laugh, grinning with his eyes closed like he does when he’s being a prick.

“Miniature pony, horse, what’s really the difference?” he says with a shrug.

“A couple thousand pounds,” Rachel offers dryly.

“Look,” says Nicholas, with his frozen, condescending smile, “I’m in the business of collecting information, Rachel, just as much as you are. But on the side, I have to sell my papers. And nothing sells papers like a good terror piece with an alliterative title, am I right, sir?”

“But that’s not even what happened,” Rachel insists, knowing even as she speaks that she’s giving hostage to fortune. “At least, not from where I was standing.”

“Oh?” And now the President _has_ to be smiling. Nicholas shoots her a dirty look but is predictably the first to look away. “I was given to understand that you were tailing the Gandors’ hitman all day.”

“I was,” says Rachel and now there’s no going back – she’s going to have to explain herself and do it carefully. “But he was on the scene.” She swallows. “With Chane Laforet.”

“Excuse me, sir.” The door opens, startling a reluctantly interested Nicholas, and Sugarcube pokes his head into the room. “But it looks like we have a bit of a situation in the newsroom.”

Through the open door, Rachel can just barely hear the intonation of sound effects, like a cartoon western is raging downstairs. The two voices sound uncannily familiar, but she can’t exactly place where—

“Oh good,” Nicholas says, his eyes closed again, his smile wide. “I love situations.”

“You’re going to really like this one, sir,” says Sugarcube dolefully. He blinks at Rachel and offers his box. She declines.

“Well then, Rachel,” the President says as Nicholas takes his leave with Sugarcube and shuts the door behind them. “I think you ought to start at the beginning. You were in the park with Vino?”

“Yes,” Rachel admits, picking at her bandage. “But that’s not where it started.”

 

 

_The beef between the Runoratas and the young Jacuzzi Splot’s gang all started over basic turf warfare. Not that the slaughter of Jacuzzi’s men can be so easily justified, but when you’re dealing smuggled hooch, you know the risks. You prepare yourself for the worst, should push come to shove.  
_

_This time, Jacuzzi was not prepared.  
_

_Not only in the literal sense, in that he forgot to bring his towel and preferred change of clothes, but in the emotional and, dare I say it, psychological sense. You see, Mr. Splot’s peculiar nervous condition which leads him to cry uncontrollably in order to turn his flimsy backbone to nerves of steel can experience failure to launch, leaving him in a vulnerable state of not only pathos and flightiness but also extreme suggestibility. So you can see how emerging from the shower to find his clothes missing might heighten his awareness; how his lack of towel might distress him further; how, when he pokes his head out of the bathroom to call Miss Holystone for help, the disturbed bed and open window might terrify him; and how, now expecting the worst of every kind of worse, the sound of an explosion from downstairs would send him hurtling out of the small apartment above and into the fully patronized soda shop below, wearing nothing but the skin God gave him. How his subsequent shock, terror, and embarrassment would drive him like a wounded bull straight past Miss Holystone and into the street outside, each block between him and the soda shop creating less of an incentive to return, yet simultaneously necessitating his immediate retreat.  
_

_A downward spiral of naked shame. I suppose we could easily say that in times of crisis, Jacuzzi Splot never fails to show his stuff._

 

 

“Yeah I saw him.” The redhead’s mouth is pulled wide in a goofy, somehow sinister grin. “Running down the stairs like the building’s on fire. His girl asked him what the matter was, but I don’t think he could hear her. His head was already three blocks away.”

“Did you see what had him so spooked?” the police officer asks, scratching the side of his head with his pen.

“Beats me,” the redhead – no, this “Claire Stanfield” character – says. “He’s a guy who likes to get himself scared.”

“So you’re acquainted with him?”

“I just mean there are too many people in this city who are scared,” Stanfield explains, waving his hand in what’s ultimately a pointless gesture. “Scared of everything, you know? Like the whole world’s gonna fall apart at any moment. Frankly, it’s kind of offensive.”

“I’m—sorry, did you say that you knew him?” the police officer says. “The suspect.”

“It’s like everyone expects me to kick off at any moment or something.” Stanfield sighs heavily, shakes his head like he’s got the whole world on his shoulders.

“The suspect,” the police officer prompts. “Do you know him?”

“No,” Stanfield shrugs mildly. “I mean, I know his name, but who doesn’t know his name? A guy like him kinda stands out. There aren’t many people with a tattoo like that right on their face. So yeah, I’ve seen him around before maybe. Once or twice. Gave him quite a scare once, the other time he really showed some pluck. But anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I’m not planning on going anywhere, especially not now.” His smile sharpens, eyes light. “Say, officer, what’s your name?”

“My—” The police officer looks down at the shiny gold badge Stanfield seems keen on ignoring. “It’s Duplessie. Anthony Duplessie.”

“Tony!” For whatever reason, this is great news, and Stanfield has him by both shoulders in an iron grip. Tony suddenly realizes just how big this guy is – like a cast shadow materialized and looming. His eyes are wine-brown and almost manic, and while Stanfield’s voice is unquestioningly delighted, Tony can’t help but feel uneasy.

“That’s great, one of my best friends was named Tony.” Tony tries not to note the past tense. Suddenly he has the distinct desire to be pushing papers back at the precinct. “Listen, Tony, you got a girl? Someone special in your life?”

“Uh,” says Tony, and he can’t tell if he’s being oddly propositioned or tested. “M-my—yes, I—fiancée, I—”

“That’s great!” Stanfield’s smile reaches his eyes, but in a peculiar way that makes them grow wider instead of fold. Tony swallows. “Congratulations. I’m really happy for you.”

“Th-thanks,” says Tony, and while he’s never in his whole life met anymore more simultaneously off-putting and intriguing, he’s feeling very done with this interview. “I, uh. Really need to return your attention to the matter at hand, sir—”

“Ah geez, I’m sorry.” Stanfield lets him go and scratches his head, expression troubled. “That was insensitive of me, wasn’t it? It’s hard for me to keep up with what’s what. Hey pal, I’ll answer any questions you want me to, but you mind if we keep it quick? She’s not technically my fiancée yet or anything but,” he jabs his thumb behind him to the most beautiful woman in the wrecked movie theater and grins as sharp as a knife, “she’s definitely my girl.”

Tony can’t tell if Claire Stanfield is actually that charming or just an absolute psychopath. He shoots off a few procedural questions, barely listens to the answers and is glad to see him go.

 

 

“I was the one who suggested the park,” says Rachel. The noise downstairs has risen to a new peak, but since the President is ignoring it, so is she.

“For any particular reason?” he asks.

“I…thought it would be a good place for.” She swallows, face pinkening. “A date.”

“I see,” says the President.

“At the very least, I thought it would be a harmless location,” Rachel says hurriedly. “I guess I was wrong.”

“Not entirely.” The President taps his pen against his desk. “The attack was ultimately thwarted, was it not?”

“Yes,” Rachel agrees, “but that was only because. Well.”

“…Rachel?”

“You…were the one who led me to Czeslaw Meyer, sir,” Rachel reminds him slowly.

“Czeslaw Meyer?” The President’s voice slows as he pretends to think. “You mean the young man who is currently in the custody of Szilard Quates’ former assistant?”

“Yes sir,” Rachel says. “So you know he’s…a….” She fidgets, opens and closes her mouth several times, but nope, there’s no forcing it out.

“Yes?”

“You know he was there too,” she says instead, sighing silently. “At the park.”

“You don't mean to suggest—?”

“Yes.” Rachel trains her eyes on the center of that information fortress. “Czeslaw Meyer was almost trampled to death by a miniature pony.”

 

 

“Almost,” Claire has always thought, is such a silly word.

It suggests the possibility of something that was always impossible to begin with, as though the world could be any other way than what obviously is. To say you “almost” did something not only means you _didn’t_ do it, but that you fancied that you _could_ have done it, which is pretty crazy, if you consider the fact that the world belongs to one man and one man alone.

Who is frankly quite irritated at the moment.

Because honestly, for as often as Rachel says he’s insensitive (which he still honestly can’t see), it’s guys like these who are really the problem. Not only did they stalk him at the park, but they followed him to the soda shop and then chased him here all the way from the theater. Could they seriously not tell that he was busy? With things more exciting than taking time out of his schedule to bless them with non-existence?

Seriously, orchestrating the universe can be so much trouble.

It’s a blind alley, pitch-black but for one red lamp glowing softly outside an emergency exit, and their scuffle is desperate and tense. Claire is less worried than he is put-out by the fact that these clowns are making him sweat in his nice overcoat on an occasion that was meant to be romantic, not blood-thirsty, clumsily flailing pipes and bats and guns and knives and a whole other assortment of pointy objects that he supposes are meant to kill him.

But say, that’s not a bad sight either, he realizes as he glances over his shoulder to see Chane roundhouse a thug to his knees, slicing her knife in a wide arc that whistles past Claire’s shoulder. She is a study of shifting ebony, her alabaster skin tinted a dull pink by the odd lighting, and he sighs dreamily, shrugging past a sloppy shiv. He breaks fingers, dislocates a shoulder, and cracks a skull against brick thinking not for the first time that he’s never seen a dame as beautiful as Chane Laforet. She might be almost perfect, he realizes, tossing a body aside and disarming a jab at his girl.

He chuckles, cracks a neck. “Almost.” What a silly word.

 _Without a doubt_ , Chane Laforet is the girl of his dreams.

The alleyway has gone silent, the sound of their breathing muffled by the heavy closeness of corpses. Claire swings a glance over to Chane to find her pulling her knife from a man’s back, wiping it carefully on his shirt before replacing it in her thigh holster. The flash of leg makes Claire’s heart jump and he averts his gaze. Offers her a hand without looking.

“Sorry about that,” he says to the alley, but he’s certainly not apologizing to the dead goons.

His eyes pull back to her when he feels the delicate slip of fingers against his palm. She’s watching him passively, but he can read her well enough: _Not at all,_ he imagines she says. _Who were they?_

“Beats me,” he says with a shrug, then adds, “No, wait, now that I think about it, I remember Luck telling me something about some guys from Minneapolis who have it out for me or something. Ah, I don’t know, it’s hard to keep track. Really, your guess is as good as mine.” He shrugs, smiles. “Thanks for lending a hand.”

Chane’s mouth twitches and she tilts her head a fraction of an inch, dark hair curtaining one fair cheek. _Of course,_ she says. _Anytime._

Her generosity always makes him blush.

 

 

“B-but Nice, i-it—it isn’t good to take showers in other people’s apartments!”

“What are you talking about? Come on, Jacuzzi, John already says he doesn’t mind – just pop upstairs, okay? I’ll bring you a change of clothes.”

“B-but isn’t it rude of me? To just walk in there l-like I own the place—?”

“Jacuzzi, you _do_ own the place. That’s the point. And John runs it like you wanted. Now come on, you look like hell – how’d you get like this in the first place?”

“I’m not even totally sure myself. I-I was in the park, a-and…well, i-it all just happened so fast….”

“Uh huh. Well, come on, tell me about it while I help you take those dirty things off.”

“Oh I’m not hurt or anything, Nice! I can do it myself.”

“I know you can, Jacuzzi. Just…consider it complimentary service.”

“C-complimentary?…Oh. Service. Oh. Uh. O-okay.”

“Ahh, he’s finally caught on. Proof he’s become a real man, isn’t that right, Donny?”

“We’re proud of you, Jacuzzi.”

“J-John! D-Donny! I-I-I—y-y-you—!”

“Now, now, don’t tease. You know how he gets when he panics. We don’t want you doing anything reckless, now do we?”

 

 

CAROUSEL CATASTROPHE SHOCKS CENTRAL PARK

By Nicholas Wayne

Sunday morning, under an unassuming blue sky, visitors to New York’s Central Park were shocked and mortified by the near trampling of a small child at the Friendly Hands Petting Zoo.

The incident occurred not an hour after the park opened, when the horse, well liked for its usually docile temperament, was spooked from the makeshift barriers surrounding the zoo and began galloping free around the park. At that same moment, the victim, whose name is being withheld due to his status as a minor, fell from the carousel and into the way of the rampaging beast. Through some stroke of fortune some are calling a miracle, the young victim sustained only minor wounds, and was able to return safely home with his guardian the same day.

This incident has brought to light a new line of inquiry regarding the safety of such attractions that frequent Central Park. Are we safe in a world that provides little to no protection from the hideous creatures we call [CONT A3]

 

 

“NICE! JOHN!! DONNY!! IS EVERYONE ALRIGHT?!”

“Jacuzzi?! What the hell are you doing, go put some—”

“I-IT’S OKAY, I-I-I-I-IT’S – EVERYTHING’S GOING TO BE OKAY I’LL—”

“Calm down, Jacuzzi, it’s alright! It was just Nice’s intruder protection alarm, everything’s—”

“INTRUDER?! WHERE?! OHNO I-I-I KNEW IT I _KNEW_ IT W-WE’RE DONE FOR, TH-THEY’VE F-FOUND ME, I-I—! EEEHGHG!!”

“Jacuzzi, no, wait, he’s not—”

“R-RAIL TRACER!!!”

“Jacuzzi?!”

“Jacuzzi, I’m telling you, everything’s fine—!”

“R-RUN!!!”

“Donny, catch him!”

“AAAUUUUGHHHHHH!!!!!”

“Heheh…wow, I’m surprised he recognized me. That’s pretty flattering.”

“?”

“Nothing, nothing. C’mon, let’s bounce. Looks like we’ve got unwanted company.”

 

 

It all started, as most things do, in Little Italy.

At a table for two outside a cute little bistro with checkered tablecloths and matching napkins. Rachel sits across from the most feared hitman in America and listens to him wax poetic about eyes the color of amber and skin the color of snow, and it occurs to her that the saying, “love makes fools of us all” makes absolutely no exception.

After all, she feels like a pretty big fool herself.

“Say, where’s a good place to take a dame?” he asks finally, shoving a mouthful of spaghetti into his flapping mouth. “I don’t really have the imagination for that kind of thing, but I figure you might. What makes a good date?”

Dating advice for the Rail Tracer. Rachel considers it. “The park, maybe?” she asks. “Don’t attractions come on Sundays?”

Claire twists his face as he considers. “That might be good,” he says. “What else? Just in case she gets bored. Or, heh, in case I do.”

This really isn’t in Rachel’s job description – she’s really just supposed to be working the latest spattering of transcontinental murders, and Vino seemed like a good a lead as any. But since he’s asking…. “The…soda shop?” she suggests. “Or the picture palace? I don’t know, I’m—not an expert on what people ordinarily do on dates.”

“What, you aren’t?” Claire sounds both shocked and disappointed, but the next second he grins. “Nah, I suppose you wouldn’t be, huh? Haha, that’s okay – I’m not exactly _looking_ for ordinary.” His eyes are dark and knowing. “Never really been my style.”

For some reason, Rachel finds herself blushing. “Are you going to propose again?” she asks, trying to change the subject. Claire shrugs.

“Maybe,” he says. “If it strikes me. Mostly, I just want us to go on a date, though. I feel like we need a proper date.”

Rachel severely doubts that anything about Claire could ever be “proper” but she plays along.

“So is that it?” she asks, picking at her largely untouched spaghetti. “You just wanted suggestions of what makes a proper date?”

“Well.” Claire’s grin is lazy. “I also thought that telling you where we’ll be would save you time tracking us down.”

“W-what?” Rachel says, and her blush rises in full force. “What makes you think I’d—?”

Claire is chuckling, his hands raised in innocence. “Just a hunch,” he says. “I mean, you’ve been tailing me all week, like I wouldn’t notice. I’m not sure what it’s about, but it’s pretty cute.”

Rachel thuds her hands on the table, face scarlet and inarticulate.

“Hahahaha, wow, now that’s a look of anger for ya! There’s no need for that, I won’t tell your boss,” Claire says. “But I’m wounded, Rachel – I thought we were better friends than that.”

“I—!”

“If you’re so curious about those murders, just ask.”

“You—!”

“They weren’t me, since you’re wondering.”

Rachel pins her mouth shut and glares as Claire laughs in that both charming and absolutely infuriating way.

“Some sloppycats, maybe, but definitely not me. I don’t like leaving the city much these days, remember?” Claire looks like he’s considering patting her hand, but thankfully he refrains. “Anyway. I’ll be meeting Chane at her place tomorrow at ten. You’re welcome to come along, if you want. I mean, not to come with me on my date, obviously, but you’re welcome to spy. Actually,” he scratches his head, “I’d like you to.”

“Wh-what?” Rachel frowns. “Why on earth—?”

“Moral support,” he says with an innocent shrug, but there’s more to it than that. “What can I say? I’m kinda nervous.”

“Are you—are you asking me to _supervise_?”

“Just a little bit?” And now he’s reverting to that giant child, all big hands and earnest eyes. “Just in case.”

“No,” Rachel says flatly, because really, does he have no shame?

“It’ll be fun!” Claire insists, snatching her hand up before she can cross her arms. “What if I need emergency advice? This is my first proper date, after all, and I want it to go well. Come on, you gotta help me!”

 _Proper_. There’s that word again. Rachel grimaces and Claire grimaces back.

“Please?” he says, and how is she supposed to say “no” to those eyes?

“Fine,” she sighs, and Claire thuds back in his chair with a sunny, appeased grin.

“Excellent,” he says. “You won’t regret it.”

 

 

Trampled by a miniature pony was not a way Czeslaw ever imagined he’d die.

Obviously Fermet couldn’t try that on the boat, but he’s pretty sure that had there been a spare pony aboard the Advenna Avis, he would have. It was a surprisingly short death though. A few staccato beats and then blackness.

Then light. Then Ennis calling his name and shaking him by the shoulders, two historic painters sobbing loudly behind her.

Those idiots. Czeslaw smiles as he sits up, rubbing his mended stomach through his torn shirt. A little bruised, but that’s pretty par for the course. But how—

Wine-brown eyes flashing in a moment of decision. A tiny, half-apologetic grin.

 _That_ monster.

“Wh-where is he?!” Czeslaw cries, whipping around, not knowing if he wants to confront him or to hide. “Where’d he go?!”

“What are you talking about, Czes?” Ennis says quietly. “Who?”

“He—! He—!” No use; the area is full of cops, bystanders, and everybody who isn’t a psychopathic redhead with a penchant for killing him. Czeslaw shudders.

“Don’t die, Czes!” Rembrandt sobs, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“Dying is not allowed!” Van Gogh weeps, grabbing his other shoulder.

“But if you did die we would just paint you into the heavens!”

“Like the stars!”

“We’d never forget you, Czes!”

“You’re immortal in our hearts!”

“…Thank you,” Czeslaw says with a soft smile, wondering, Do they not—? _No, surely they know,_ he thinks, but then again, historic painters can be pretty set in their ways.

“Did you see someone?” Ennis asks.

Czeslaw shook his head. “My imagination,” he lies, still feeling the tug at his collar. “I don’t know what my mind is up to.”

 

 

_The mind is an amazing tool. It can make connections in ways that reality doesn’t offer and thus create narratives out of something inherently nonsensical. The streaking incident, for instance, is a perfect example of the mind making horror stories of coincidence._

_But it was not coincidence that Claire Stanfield was followed from the moment he set foot outside his apartment, and not just by my intrepid reporter. No, this was a very personal threat, a threat by a group of people unnamed but no less terrifying for it, who we since have learned were responsible for a string of bloody murders spanning from California all the way to Minneapolis. This shadowy band of individuals, united under what we can only assume is the banner of revenge, followed Vino to New York with the sole intention of taking his life. Only, they underestimated the lengths to which he would go to thwart them; after all, who in their right mind would murder a child in broad daylight just to buy time to escape?  
_

_They also underestimated the fact that he was on a date with none other than Chane Laforet. Who, by the end of the night, was perhaps tired enough of the day’s antics herself to be persuaded to shed some blood.  
_

_Regardless, these no-namers from the West with a bone to pick with the Gandors’ hitman arrived with the wrong strategy at the wrong time. If their corpses are to be any indication of their success, anyway._

 

 

“Well, no, see, there was a guy from the Runorata family there, but he was just drinking a float, if you can believe it. Had no intention of starting trouble or anything. I mean, I’m not so much of a fan of the Runoratas myself, but live and let live, am I right? The fellow just wanted a soda. But anyway, my main man comes tearing down the stairs completely naked, catches one look at him and then goes screaming out the front door, Johnson flapping in the breeze, his girl hot on his tail. Earlier, though, we did hear something—kind of from the kitchen area, like an explosion—and that was when I first thought we should go too, you know, my girl and me, in case there was going to be trouble. See, I personally don’t like trouble. It’s just real troublesome, is all. And there were some suspicious guys hanging around outside too, so, well, long story short is I grab my dame and we go catch a picture, ‘cause that’s pretty nice, right? Sitting all cozy, side-by-side…nah, now I’m getting embarrassed. You go see movies with your girl? It’s the best, I’m tellin’ you. I don’t know why I waited so long to go on a proper date. But then of course this all happens. A guy can’t catch a break, can he? Anyway, are you done with me, officer? I think my girl’s getting tired of waiting.”

Tony nods emptily and Stanfield grins.

“Thanks pal.” Claps him on the shoulder. “You’re swell.”

 

 

Rachel regrets it. With every fiber of her being.

And that was even before she found herself squeezed behind a dumpster in a blind alley.

Or gasping for air in the smoke behind the soda shop.

Or flat on her face in front of barnyard animals in Central Park.

She regretted it the second she actually showed up to the bus stop across the street from Chane’s apartments, eyes trained on the blood-red hair and crisp black overcoat.

It’s unfair how handsome he is, Rachel laments, because one can get tricked into thinking that watching Claire Stanfield is somehow a profitable pastime. She’s long since learned that nothing could be further from the truth; not because he does nothing of consequence, but because he simply moves too fast to keep in frame. He is corporeal smoke, disappearing with a shift and a grin whenever he needs to be gone, reappearing too far away to catch. There’s something otherworldly about him, Rachel is convinced, and despite her exposure to the otherworldly, she can’t really decide what sort of supernatural he is.

Chane Laforet emerges a few minutes after ten, dressed in red and looking perhaps even more stunning than her date, who smiles widely and opens his arm in a grand, unnecessary gesture. Rachel can’t hear what words Claire is saying and Chane makes no indication that the information is particularly interesting or relevant which, knowing Claire, is probably the case. After a moment, Chane takes his arm and they walk, an impossibly gorgeous splash of blood and darkness under a beautiful, blue, Sunday sky.

Everything goes swimmingly for about twenty minutes, and then the trouble starts.

The first tail is amateurishly easy to spot, a dull-faced man loitering behind the carousel and not reading his upheld newspaper. Claire is grinning like a little kid as he rides the carousel, siting backwards on a flying elephant in order to talk to Chane riding a painted horse sidesaddle. Rachel wavers in indecision where she’s mindlessly feeding a goat within the makeshift petting zoo – does Claire not see him? Is he that absorbed in his “proper” date that he doesn’t notice he’s being marked?

It isn’t until the second man arrives at the other end of the zoo that Rachel considers blowing her cover. She sees the surreptitious flash of a gun, but so does a particularly skittish miniature pony that spooks, screeching and stamping and leaping out of its pitiful enclosure. The ruckus startles the gunman enough to knock him over into a young man who falls with a nasal scream over the fence and into the feed-trough. Rachel whips back to Claire just in time to watch him seize the nearest kid by the collar, rip him from the carousel, and throw him directly into the path of the rampaging pony.

Shock roots Rachel ‘s body as a scream lifts above the sick sound of hooves on flesh and the gargle of blood bubbling up a windpipe. The man with the newspaper flinches, revealing a drawn piece before he folds his paper around it and stalks stiffly away as his counterpart tries to detangle himself from the innocent bystander flailing in the feed-trough. Claire is a flapping black coat and a flash of wine-brown eyes, leaping lightly from the carousel with Chane and evaporating like an unfinished sentence.

Rachel’s hands are shaking so badly on the fence that she flubs her vault and instead lands painfully on her elbow. Nobody notices; the attention has been polarized to restraining the trembling pony and recovering what’s left of the boy—

“Czes!! Czes!! Are you alright?!”

Rachel blinks. Czes? Surely not—

“Wh-where is he?” There’s no mistaking his voice – alive and well. “Where’d he go?!”

Rachel pushes to her feet and quickly slips away, just as two street performers arrive and start wailing like a Grecian chorus.

 

 

“JACUZZI! FOR THE LOVE OF—STOP RUNNING! YOU’RE GONNA HURT YOURSELF!!”

“I-I-I-I C-CAN’T NICE! I-I CAN’T STOP NOW, I—AAAAAHHHGH!!”

“…There, see? What’d I tell you? I swear, Jacuzzi, sometimes you’re a real mess.”

“…I-I’m s-sorry, Nice. I’m—hch—so sorry…”

“Why’re you crying, you big dope? Come here.”

“…”

“It was just the backdoor, alright? The explosion you heard. Just a little precaution to make sure no one gets too nosy. I’m sorry, I shoulda told you about it. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“N-no, i-it’s okay. I-I should have been better about it. Calmer, I mean. I-I-I just wasn’t expecting it is all, y’know? I thought m-maybe it was—and then I saw that guy and I just—!”

“It’s okay, you don’t need to explain. I gotcha. But hey, how’s about we get some clothes on ya, hm? As much as _I_ don’t mind, the Johnnies in blue sure might.”

“I—what—NICE!! I-I-I-I DON’T HAVE ANY CLOTHES ON!”

“You just noticed…?”

“WH-WHAT—DID I RUN ALL THIS WAY LIKE THIS?? OHGOSH THIS IS TERRIBLE, I-I—! I-I—!!”

“Oh brother….”

 

 

She catches up with them mostly by accident when she slips into a pharmacy to pick up gauze for her bleeding elbow. They’re framed in the soda shop window next door, two straws poking out of a shared float. Claire is talking again, grinning as Chane blinks dolefully at him and takes a delicate sip. Were they any other two people, the scene would be precious; as it is, it’s just sweetly sinister.

Another man in an ill-fitting coat and low-brimmed hat is loitering across the street, smoking carelessly and a little too invested in checking his pocket watch. Rachel frowns, wrapping her elbow and watching the pitiful lookout. Seriously, whoever these people are, they’re being way too obvious. And again, Claire seems as oblivious as a schoolboy in love, chin cupped dreamily in his hands as he gazes across the table at his sweetheart. Rachel can’t tell how much of his glazed expression is show and how much is sincere, but regardless, if the lookout is connected to those goons from the park, he’s probably looking to start trouble in a soda shop full of innocent people. It’s enough incentive to urge her up the pharmacy’s fire escape and leap over to the adjoining rooftop.

She picks the easiest window and jimmies it open. The bedroom beyond is cozy, the bathroom occupied with the sound of a shower. She gets halfway to the front door before a sudden, incoming voice drives her back, and she springs across the bed to loop through the open window again.

Okay, so maybe the backdoor, then.

The explosion isn’t huge, but it knocks her soundly off her feet, air blasting from her lungs as she hits the opposite wall of the alley. She wheezes through the smoke, crawls away and tries to maintain consciousness as a panicked, nasal scream winds through the air like a siren accompanied by the sound of rampaging feet. Blearily, Rachel peers down to the mouth of the alley just in time to see quick feet whip by followed by a set of heels.

Dragging her sorry body to its feet, Rachel follows.

 

 

“Hey Isaac?”

“Yes, Miria, m’dear?”

“What makes a good story?”

“Well, Miria,” says Isaac, lifting a finger in explanation, “a good story is something that keeps its listeners entertained for as long as it’s being told. It doesn’t have to make sense, necessarily, just as long as everybody’s having fun.”

“Wow!” says Miria. “That makes me think of all those times we tried to steal money from the mafia!”

“Doesn’t it though?” chuckles Isaac. “Not a whole lot of sense when you think about it, but it sure was fun!”

“Sure was!” Miria agrees. “I bet that would make a great story!”

“And maybe someone will write it one day, my dear!”

“Wow, like a book in a bookstore!”

“Of course!” says Isaac, sweeping his arms. “But not just that, something even bigger and better than that!”

“Really??”

“A whole slew of books! Books upon books upon books about our great adventures! You and me!”

“And Ennis too?”

“Ennis too!”

“And little Czes?”

“Especially little Czes!”

“And everyone else?”

“Everyone’s invited!!”

“Wow!” Miria says, and it’s literally the greatest thing she’s ever heard. “That’s amazing!”

“I know it is, Miria! Otherwise I wouldn’t have said it!”

“But who’s going to write the stories?” she asks.

“Well that’s obvious, Miria!” Isaac says, lifting his finger again.

He’s silent for a good while.

“We don’t need to decide on a writer!” he says cheerfully. “The world will decide for us!”

“Oh, of course!”

“And then the whole world will partake in telling our wonderful story!”

“You think they’ll make a moving picture?”

“Tons of moving pictures! Picture after picture after picture, just of you and me!”

“Wow!”

“And you know what they say, Miria,” says Isaac. “A picture’s worth a thousand words!”

“Wow! How many pictures does it take to make a picture move do you suppose!”

“Millions!” Isaac exclaims. “Which means – if you times a million by a thousand – there’s a thousand million words about us just waiting to be written!”

“Incredible!!”

“Come to think of it,” Isaac grabs his chin pensively. “The newspaper _pays_ by the word, doesn’t it?”

“Now that you say that,” Miria mimics his pose, “that does sound familiar.”

“We could stand to make a lot of money off of a thousand million words.”

“We’d be rich.”

“And with that money we could…feed the hungry!”

“Yes!”

“Clothe the needy!”

“With clothes!”

“And give school books to every child in America!”

“Like superheroes!”

“Alright, my dear, it’s decided!” Isaac strikes a pose. “We’re going to rob a picture palace!”

“Wow!” exclaims Miria.

“And sell a thousand million words to the newspaper in order to eliminate poverty!”

“You’re a genius, Isaac!”

“And then one day our good deeds will be immortalized in history like the ancients!”

“Like Vincent Van Gogh!”

“And then everyone will know our story!”

“Alright!!” Miria grabs his hand as he sweeps an arm around her waist. “Let’s go steal some words!!!”

 

 

Chane is completely speechless.

Not only literally, but at this very moment, standing outside her apartment under the veil of nightfall. Claire is standing before her, arms by his sides, smiling at her with a steady, trusting gaze. How can he just say such things like that like it’s so easy? How can those eyes—so often full of fire or violence—be softened to a glowing burn that kindles something within her own chest, something private and terrifying and strangely raw? Something that makes her face warm and her eyes drop to her gloved hands and the bloodstains stippling her dress?

“So,” Claire says softly. “Now you know.”

He talked to himself all day. Well, directed at her, mostly, but it was an unbroken narrative, like the fact that she can’t speak didn’t put him off at all. He’d fill in the blanks of her conversation, mostly correct in his intuition, sometimes falling outside the mark, but always engaging her. With his eyes, his smile, his voice, fingers careful on her elbow, palm possessive at her shoulder blade.

She had brought her notebook and pen with the intention of communication, but she never opened it once. He may have said a lot of pointless stuff, but through the whole day Chane could think of nothing she had wanted to add.

It was all there. The whole world.

He waits for her to speak, watching her silently struggle for the words she’s grown accustomed to not using. The right words, words that say what she wants him to hear clearly, to the bottom of his heart, not just what he can guess from time to time. She opens her mouth in a useless gesture before shaking her head.

She’s always been better with action.

It isn’t difficult at all to push up onto her toes, and guide his mouth down, press her lips against his and hope her thoughts convey. She feels his shock melt, arms loosening as they gingerly cradle her waist, the small hitch of sound in his throat as she runs her tongue slowly across the seam of his lips. He is endearingly clumsy—suddenly awkward and uncertain—but gains confidence quickly as he matches her pace, drawing the back of his fingers delicately across her cheek in a surprisingly tender gesture.

When she finally settles back onto her heels, his eyes are bright and dark in a way she hasn’t ever seen them before, not even on the roof of the train.

“Does,” Claire whispers against her ear, his voice suddenly husky and broken, “that mean you—?”

Chane swallows, the sound of his breath sending shivers of electricity down her limbs, but there’s no lying about it now. She grips his jacket with two tight fists and firmly nods.

 

 

It hits Rachel just as she’s leaving the panicking theater.

It seemed strange from the outset, even by Claire’s standards, to invite her to stalk his “proper” date just for moral support. Not once through the whole day did he make so much as the smallest indication that he was aware or appreciative of her presence, and judging by the constant stream of babble he was producing, he seemed to be doing alright in terms of keeping Chane entertained (although whether Chane was actually enjoying herself or not was up for debate). Regardless, just as Rachel is starting to feel bitter about spending a whole day watching Claire being tailed by horridly incompetent nobodies, it occurs to her that they’re not nobodies at all.

_If you’re so curious about those murders, just ask.  
_

_I thought we were better friends than that.  
_

_Excellent. You won’t regret it._

That was his aim all along, she realizes—to show her straight to the very scoop that she’s been searching for. Who these people are – what their objective is – why – is literally right at her fingertips. The only the thing left to do is wait until they talk, and surely, she thinks as she crouches behind a dumpster in the blind alley Claire and Chane are being chased into, it’s only a matter of time. Someone’s going to spill something.

As it turns out, between Claire and Chane, the only thing these mysterious gangsters spill is blood and guts. Lots of it. Everywhere. Until there’s nothing left but corpses and silence.

So much for that scoop.

“Sorry about that,” Claire calls vaguely and Rachel has to bite her clenched fist to keep from screaming in rage. This dumb, insensitive—!!

“Beats me,” she hears Claire continue dopily. “No, wait, now that I think about it, I remember Luck telling me something about some guys from Minneapolis who have it out for me or something. Ah, I don’t know, it’s hard to keep track. Really, your guess is as good as mine.”

Rachel scowls into the darkness. Minneapolis? Is this his attempt at peace-making? He could have told her as much at lunch. She grumbles as she gets to her feet. It’s certainly not much of a lead, but Rachel supposes it redeems today from being a total wash.

 

 

“Hands up! Nobody move unless you want to be painted!”

Nicholas can’t say he’s ever been caught in a stranger hold-up, but what the hell.

“Whoa, slow down there,” he says, raising his hands obediently in the face of an extended paintbrush. “Take it easy, fellahs. We’re here to listen.”

The newsroom has stilled its clattering and the journalists are eyeing him questioningly, fingers twitching to where their firearms are hidden under their desks but Nicholas jerks his head in veto and grins obligingly at the two characters in front of him.

“What can I do for you today, Mister, uh—?”

“How easily the youth forget the ancients!” Artist Guy A roars.

“Pearls before swine!” supplies Artist Gal B.

“It is I, Rembrandt!” Artist Guy A pronounces.

“And his sidekick Vincent Van Gogh!” She strikes a superhero pose.

“And we have come for all the money you can give us!”

“For all these words!”

Two giant sacks of film cans clatter to Nicholas’ feet. He lifts his eyebrows, unsure if this is a heist, information pedaling, or some horribly mistimed April Fool’s joke. Whatever it is, his latest batch of information has just waltzed in through the front door, and he couldn’t be more pleased.

“What’s your deal?” he asks.

“Bring us all the money you have!” Rembrandt shouts. “Or,” he falters suddenly, looking to Van Gogh for support. “Wait, that’s got to be an awful lot of money, isn’t it, my dear?”

“Sure is.”

“And if we take all their money like we planned, how will they be able to feed their families?”

“Their children would starve!”

“I didn’t start this life of crime to starve children!”

“Me neither!”

“But,” Rembrandt sniffs, on the cusp of tears. “What are we to do with all of these pictures?”

“I don’t know!” Van Gogh wails.

“Listen, Mister!” Nicholas’ shirt-collar is suddenly in Rembrandt’s firm fist, the newsroom too shocked to do anything but stare. “You’ve got to help us! We’ve had a lot of adventures over the years and we’ll do anything to tell our story to the needy!”

“For posterity!” Van Gogh insists. “For the future!”

“Oh yeah?” says Nicholas, trying to keep his voice level. “Then how about this – why don’t you tell me your story, and I’ll promise to spread the good word like wildfire.” And who says Journalism’s difficult?

“Do you really mean it?” Van Gogh asks with shining, tear-stained eyes.

“I swear on my integrity as a reporter,” Nicholas tries to remember the Boy Scout salute, fails, and settles on a vague, raised hand instead. He can hear a snort somewhere behind him.

“Excellent!” Rembrandt booms, and lets him go, planting two firm hands on his hips. “Then sit down, my boy, because have we got a story for you!”

 

 

“Minneapolis?” the President says.

“That’s correct.” Whatever uproar was happening downstairs seems to have yielded to the usual rattle of typewriters. “I’m not sure what to make of it yet, but I’ll start there.”

“See that you do,” the President says. “Good work, Rachel. It sounds like you had a trying day.”

Rachel stares at her dirty fingernails, feeling her face warm. “Thank you, sir,” she mumbles.

“You’re free to go,” the President says. “My guess is you’ll want to get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” Rachel says and she stands. “Thank you sir.”

“Oh, but Rachel?” the President calls. “One more thing, before you go.”

Rachel pauses in the doorway, staring at the impenetrable desk.

“How did it ultimately fare?” he asks. “Vino’s ‘proper date’ with Chane Laforet?”

Rachel chuckles under her breath, fingers tightening on the doorjamb.

“Well, sir,” she says with a small smile. “I think it went well.”

 

 

Not like he had any doubts. This place is his, through and through, including all the people in it. She is his. He knew it the moment he set eyes on her.

But for whatever reason, he’s standing before her and feeling, irrationally, like he might lose something. That things might not, in fact, go as swimmingly as he knows they will.

Words are suddenly sticky in his throat, kind of like they were on the train roof, when he looked seriously into her eyes and proposed the most obvious progression in the world to him. Her shock had been adorable, but wholly unnecessary. Could she not see the tracks of fate set out before them? If she couldn’t, he wanted to show her.

He wants her to know.

“I had a great time today,” he says.

Chane nods and somehow that dress is even prettier on her now than it was this morning, when she stepped out into the clear day like one dripping ruby in a sparkling chain of diamonds.

“I hope we can do this again sometime?” Claire phrases it like a question even though he knows they will because that nagging feeling of uncertainty is still tugging at his heart, telling him all sorts of lies like _maybe she won’t want to_ and _maybe your instinct is wrong_.

Maybe this isn’t his story after all.

But she nods and smiles, actually _smiles_ , and no, there’s no way, there can’t be a world in which he can’t see that smile again every single day from now until the final curtain falls.

“Hey Chane,” he says and she tilts her head. He smiles, suddenly embarrassed. “I’ll wait too. For you. Forever. “

Chane’s eyes widen, a light blush powdering her cheeks and it takes every fiber of Claire’s self-restraint to not just swoop in and kiss her without permission. Instead, he just studies her face, soaks her up, and the longer he does so, somehow the easier the words finally fall.

“I’m in love with you, Chane Laforet,” he says. “And at the end of the day, that’s all there is to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for surviving to the end! Many, MANY thanks to Icie for the _fantastic_ prompt. This was hella fun to write ~~and I hope you found something you liked out of all that nonsense?~~ ^^


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